


Shut Up

by foolishgames



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-11
Updated: 2012-08-11
Packaged: 2017-11-11 21:58:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/483315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foolishgames/pseuds/foolishgames
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing about Matt is, he doesn’t shut up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shut Up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [angstslashhope (Hope)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/gifts).



> Originally posted to livejournal May 2008

The thing about Matt is, he doesn’t shut up.

It’s like he has absolutely no brain-to-mouth filter at all, like no thought has ever entered his head that he hasn’t immediately blurted out. And since he’s a smart guy, that’s a lot of thoughts to get out. He tends to keep up a constant, low-running commentary about whatever springs to mind.

It’s annoying at first, and John find himself grinding his teeth in a way he hasn’t since Lucy was thirteen and decided she wanted to be a popstar and started wearing those short skirts and too much makeup.

John’s surprised, after the flames are out and the surgery’s over and his muscles have launched a campaign to let him know that he’s not twenty anymore, when Matt shows up and drags him out for a beer. And then again, the following week, to eat popcorn and make sarcastic remarks about the game John’s watching. And then he spends a whole Saturday honest-to-god talking to the dusty computer John bought a few years back at his son’s urging and never quite figured out how to use.

“Fucking thing – jesus, when did you get this, the dark ages?”

John tips his head back so he can see Matt, clattering away at the keyboard. “Four years ago? Five?”

Matt turns his head, eyes wide. “Seriously? Seriously. Wow. Wow, okay. And you’ve never used it?”

“Couldn’t figure it out.”

“You’re not even connected to the internet. How are you not connected to the internet? Oh, hey, okay, wow, spyware. And viruses! How the hell do you have spyware and viruses when you’re not even connected to the internet, McLane?”

“Viruses? I didn’t know computers could get sick,” John says innocently, and listens to the kid’s voice ratchet up an octave.

Really, the constant talk becomes soothing after a while, like white noise.

~

It becomes a kind of game, after that. Getting Matt to talk himself in circles, to become agitated, to trip over his words, to work himself up. A casual “I saw this thing on Fox News last night,” is good for a half-hour of sputtering rage and increasingly incoherent diatribe. An innocently misworded question about some aspect of technology will garner either a patient, long-suffering sigh or an excited, hand-waving, bubbling monologue on the joys of the internet. The only thing that shuts him up, albeit briefly, is gently teasing him about his lack of a social life, and John doesn’t like to that, because Matt will screw up his mouth oddly and look at John from under his lashes in such a bizarrely knowing way it almost creeps him out.

But it’s good. Matt, when not under threat of arrest or imminent death, is entertaining, funny, clever, sharp, and has an incongruously good George Harrison impression. John can put up with a solid wall of words for that.

And anyway, it’s worth it just for the times when Matt forgets that he has food in his mouth, tries to talk, and accidentally dribbles all over himself.

~

“ –really, I mean, Jesus Christ, it’s not like I was, like, openly leering, or anything, I was just standing there, minding my own business – I wasn’t even looking at her ass, you know, she had this, belt, thing, like bright lime green, kind of eye-catching, and I was just looking at it. And then she turns around and starts hitting me with her handbag, screaming that I’m some kind of pervert and how dare I – though really, you’d think with a belt she’d have less ass hanging out, you’d think she wanted to be ogled or something, and some girls should definitely not be wearing thongs – but I swear she had, like, rocks in that thing or something, because it fucking hurt, okay? She just kept whacking me in the head and everyone was laughing – you’re laughing. Why are you laughing? It’s not funny!”

“Pass the chips, would you?”

~

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, come on, man! I could have made that shot, and I’m the wimpiest player ever! Where do they get these guys, I swear to god – what, what is that? Was that supposed to be a – are you watching this, McLane? John, are you seeing – oh, this is just embarrassing, really.”

“Yeah, I’m seeing.”

“Fucking unbelievable, man. He’s gonna be the locker room bitch tonight, I’m telling you.”

“More’n I wanted to know about your taste in porn, kid.”

~

“- and furthermore, the man’s an idiot. Did I mention that?”

“Once or twice.”

“Seriously, a pea-brained, godforsaken moron. He’s just – did you know his handlers won’t let him make unscripted appearances? And he still manages to screw it up. He can’t even handle basic grammar. He makes shit up to support his policies, and when it’s proven to be untrue, keeps on trying to push the policies anyway. He’s mishandled the budget so badly we’re going to have a massive deficit for the next ten years. Did you know he says his favourite book as a kid was The Very Hungry Caterpillar?”

“I used to read that to Lucy.”

“It was published when he was in college. Where, might I add, he got below-average grades and was arrested for drunk-driving.”

“You’ve been arrested.”

“I’m not running for President.”

“So, you don’t vote Republican, then.”

“What? What, are you kidding me? Have you been listening to a single thing I said?”

“Something, something – spawn of Satan – something – gross incompetence - blah blah blah.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, it’s like I’m talking to myself, here.”

~

“Okay there, kid?”

“Nnngh.”

There’s one thing pretty much guaranteed to shut Matt up. John shifts his hips, gingerly, testing. Matt makes a soft, helpless noise and arches up, his whole body shuddering, begging wordlessly, and John touches Matt’s face, pushing his hair off his sweaty forehead.

It’s not like Matt’s actually quiet when they fuck, John muses as he tucks Matt’s knee against his skinny chest. He makes noise – desperate, needy little groans, or loud, enthusiastic shouts that make John wonder at his energy. It’s just not usually very coherent.

John likes to tell himself he’s gotten pretty good at deciphering it.

That high, demanding whimper, paired with the way Matt’s shifting restlessly, pushing against John’s restraining hands – that’s Matt getting bored and impatient, sick of taking it slow, sick of being teased.

John grins to himself and moves – not fast and hard, the way Matt is begging for without words – slow and smooth and as inevitable as this, as this thing between them, Matt spread out and wordless under him, John fucking a guy gone twenty years his junior and feeling alive for the first time in way too long.

Matt gasps and grunts and his fingers scrabble at the sheets, at John’s arm, and John can tell it’s not enough for him by the way he bites his lip and tips his head back, exposing the clean, vulnerable line of this throat. He puts his hand there, feeling Matt’s pulse jumping wildly, drags it down to rub at the little dark nipples, lower again just to watch Matt squirm and try not to laugh when he hits that insanely ticklish spot over his ribs.

He wonders what it says about him that he’s fucking a kid still too young to know that it’s okay to laugh in bed, that sex is fun and funny and it’s okay if you do it wrong. He tickles Matt again, and Matt wriggles beautifully and turns his face away to hide the dimples.

John starts fucking him in earnest then, harder and just that edge of rougher, and knows it’s right when Matt grunts happily and yanks his own legs closer, bending himself in half. 

And then he starts with the moaning. Jesus, the kid could do porn, the way he carries on, and it gets to John every time because he knows by now that that’s how Matt sounds when he’s close enough to the edge that he can’t really control himself. And as he comes, his voice trails out into a thin, needy moan that he always denies later, like it’s embarrassing to want, to lose control.

It doesn’t take too long for John to follow – the tight clutch of Matt’s body, the way he twitches with every thrust, the look of him, sated and sweaty, his dark eyes fixed eagerly on John’s face. He’s too old to have the blinding, overpowering orgasms of his youth, but it rushes over him satisfyingly, stripping the strength from his limbs until he slumps forwards to collapse on Matt.

Afterwards, Matt shoves at him inelegantly. “Dude, you’re fucking heavy.”

John rolls to the side and cracks an eyelid at him. “What are you gonna do about it?”

“I’m gonna go,” says Matt haughtily, levering himself out of bed and wandering towards the bathroom, “and find myself somebody who doesn’t think that falling asleep on top of somebody you’ve just fucked is good manners. That’d teach you to appreciate what you have. Somebody who actually takes my comfort into consideration -”

John tucks his hands behind his head and listens to Matt ramble. A wet washcloth splat in the middle of his chest. A cold wet washcloth. He manfully manages to not jump, quickly wiping himself down and tossing it away.

“- fucking tickling me, dude, you know I hate that. Why do you always do that?” Matt complains, climbing back onto the bed, over John, and flopping down on his side.

Dimples, thinks John, and something about the way you squirm. “Shut up, kid,” he says instead, and falls asleep between one thought and the next to the sound of Matt muttering something rude under his breath.


End file.
